How old were they before they stopped getting that look in their eyes? Did it ever stop? That look I had come to recognize so well. Just a couple steps before that must which instantly made it as hard as old wood, which always started out as a tight kernel of lust. That look. Shiny eyes couldn’t look straight at curled eyelashes no matter how much they concentrated. Shiny eyes fighting curled eyelashes so hard they had no choice but to sit the round out and turn down. Rest themselves on loose shoelaces, lint in hair, a button come loose in the middle of breasts, a single curved eyelash fallen on a plump cheek—anything to give them a reason or a right to touch us. Somewhere between boyish charm and mannish mischief, right before that turned-on twinge we women could smell before we even knew it was there, they always gave themselves away with the look. Cabbie had it, and it was only after I saw it in his eyes that I sniffed the air just to find out the scent of Old Spice had gotten stronger. Twice, in one night, I asked a question I knew I shouldn’t have.

“Mister?”

He jumped so hard at the sound of my voice his hands lifted off the steering wheel for a second. I saw his thick gold wedding ring catch the lights from King Drive.

“Huh?”

I didn’t know if I would be able to get it out.

“Miss, you want something?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe I do.”

The whites of his eyes suddenly took up more space in the rearview mirror I was watching him through.

“Lord … don’t tell me I done picked up another one of these hypes. You in your right mind tonight? Matter fact, where your coat? Why you ain’t cold? You ain’t on that stuff, is you?”

I needed to get on with it quick. He looked like the type of old Black man who shuffled down Sixty-third at two in the morning with a pistol packed tight against his narrow hips, who could forget about arthritis long enough to aim a slim barrel fast as a switchblade unfolds, and wouldn’t hesitate to snap back the trigger if need be.

“Do I look like I’m on that stuff?” I pouted. “Shoot, I know I don’t. I see you looking at me. I know I look good.”

In the rearview mirror I saw his eyebrows arch in a new, unexpected confusion.

“Don’t I look good?” I asked him before he could start to even care if he was attracted to a hype. He didn’t answer, so I figured the best thing I could do was to get him talking again.

“My daddy used to drive a cab. How long you been driving a cab?”

Nervous now, he talked fast.